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Page 135
swinging weapons and men running, dodging, crawling, shrieking with pain and fear.
''Kill them!" Ian screamed. "Kill them! Kill them!"
He swung the morningstar and missed as the destrier's momentum carried him past a bloodied, white-faced thing that held up unarmed hands in supplication. Cursing, Ian loosened his shield and cast it from his arm, flung himself from his horse, swung the morningstar again, and again, and again. In a single glimpse he had seen a heap of bodies at one edge of the clearing and, a little to one side, a smaller heap that, even with the colors bleached by the moonlight, was wearing the dress of a gentlewoman.

 
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